Death Is In The Air
by Dr4m4g33k
Summary: Sherlock and John take a case to prevent a deadly virus from spreading through London. Based off the "Psych" episode of the same name. Note: Not a crossover fic. J/S Friendship-turned-romance, eventually pre-slash to slash (non-graphic) in later chapters. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

"Death is in the Air"

A/N: For any of you who have seen Psych, I'll admit I lifted this storyline directly from the episode of the same name, and Sherlock-ified it. Just for clarification, this is NOT a crossover fic, just a borrowed storyline from another show. For those of you familiar with this episode, you'll notice I split up the roles to separate people where it seemed appropriate (for example, you'll see the part of Gus being performed by Mycroft, Lestrade and John in some areas, and the part of Detective Lassiter being played by Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan).

This is also my first attempt at a fanfiction (of any kind!) so constructive criticism is welcomed.

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"Ok, Sherlock, I'm off!"

John picked up his wallet from the mantel as he called to his flatmate, who was peering into a microscope. Sherlock sneered as he passed.

"I hope your lunch date is not that _hopeless_ woman from forensics. What was her name? Rhonda? Rita?"

"Rachel. And she's not hopeless, Sherlock. She's a perfectly lovely woman."

"Her ears are enormous. She looks like a cab with the doors open."

John rolled his eyes at his friend. Just once, could he find something not-hateful to say about his dates? It would be a lovely change, but John wasn't hopeful.

"She does not, and don't go blowing up the flat while I'm gone."

John scampered down the stairs and flung open the door to 221b Baker Street, nearly bowling over a tall man who was seconds away from ringing the doorbell.

"Oh sorry about tha—Oh, god…" John waved a hand in front of his face. The man on the doorstep exuded a smell of alcohol so strong, it could almost be seen with the naked eye. He was sweating nervously, and squinted his eyes against the weak London sunlight.

"Oh, no it's alright, it's alright." the man said, more than a bit nervously. His bloodshot eyes darted into the open doorway behind John. "Er… I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Is this the right address?"

John sighed, "Yes, this is the right place. Come on in, he's upstairs." It looked like he wouldn't make that lunch date after all.

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The lanky, dark-haired man introduced himself as Donny Leiberman. Donny seemed like a nervous man to begin with, but in his current state, he was downright jumpy. His eyes darted around as he made himself slightly-less uncomfortable in his chair.

Sherlock was reluctantly pried away from his experiment at the prospect of a new case, but wrinkled his nose as he approached the prospective client. He swept his icy gaze over the man squirming in his seat and sniffed distastefully.

"What did you lose?" The question was more accusation than inquiry.

Donny blinked up at the detective, uncomprehending. "Excuse me? How did you—"

John rolled his eyes in his best _here-we-go_ fashion as Sherlock started in on Donny.

"Your clothes are badly rumpled, two days worn at least. It doesn't take a genius to pick up the stench of alcohol positively _rolling_ off of you, so sometime last night you went out and drank copiously, Obvious. There are no traces of blood on your clothes or shoes, and you didn't bring anything with you that would be a weapon of some sort so there's no reason to suspect violence of any kind. There is the outline of a passport in your pocket, so you've been traveling abroad, but if you were missing a traveling companion you would have brought something with you that belonged to them, or at least those would have been the first words out of your mouth. Besides, you're single and haven't spoken to your parents or siblings in ages, so you're traveling alone anyway. The only other reason someone would come to private detective instead of the police is if something is missing or stolen, and given how nervous you are, I suspect you'd like to keep its loss quiet. Given that you were drinking last night and came in yesterday, with the intention of leaving today, I imagine you are a courier of some kind, and when you were drunk whatever you were carrying was either left behind or stolen and now you want me to help you find it."

Donny continued to blink owlishly up at him, as if he couldn't really process what he'd heard. Sherlock, impatient with the amount of idiocy before him prompted, "Am I wrong?"

"No…no, you're exactly right, Wow." Donny shook his head lightly and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he fished out of his pocket. "So can you help me?"

"Well you haven't answered my question." Sherlock fixed him with a _don't-bore-me_ glare.

Donny shifted anxiously. "It was a portable cooler from a laboratory called Genutech. I picked it up yesterday afternoon, and was supposed to be on a flight to the States this morning, but when I woke up, it was gone. I was so smashed last night, the whole evening is a blur—I have no idea where it could have gone!"

John leaned in and glanced at Sherlock, then at their client. "Donny… it's very important you tell us what was in that cooler."

Donny shifted again, looking desperately between the detective and the doctor. "You have to know, if I'd known what I was carrying at the time, I would never have—"

"What. Was in. The cooler?" Sherlock demanded icily.

Donny stared at the wall past Sherlock, refusing to meet either of their eyes. He cleared his throat, and swallowed a few times before responding. "The… Thornburg virus?"

John leaned back in his seat with an anxious groan. "Oh, Donny…" he breathed, voice full of concern and exasperation. Sherlock looked between them blankly. He set his eyes on his flatmate questioningly. "The what?" he asked.

John shook his head. "The Thornburg virus. I read about it in a medical journal recently. It's very rare…"

Sherlock noted the tone in his voice. "Not good, I imagine?"

"Very much not good."

Donny nodded, miserably. "It normally targets victims in Africa. A few companies here and in the US are doing research and developing a cure for it. I was going to contact the police, or the HPA, but I thought if we found it first—"

"You mean if I found it." Sherlock interjected.

Donny hesitated, then nodded agreeably. "Yes, right. Then, nobody has to be the wiser. If this gets out I could be in serious trouble."

"Well, if the virus gets out quite a lot of people will be in serious trouble." John replied, ever the concerned doctor. "Was there anything else taken besides the cooler?"

Donny nodded again. "Yes, my heirloom gold watch, given to me by my father."

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, "If someone were to come into contact with the sample, what would happen to them?"

Donny knitted his brow together in thought. "If they were to actually open the vial in the cooler? Well, Thornburg spreads very quickly once its introduced into the system. The infected person would develop symptoms like headaches, weakness, bleeding—sometimes from the eyes."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, nodding knowingly. "And the virus is quite fatal. From first signs of symptoms to death can take as little as eighteen or even twelve hours, depending on the person."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his mobile bleeping. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Lestrade," he said to John before hitting the answer key. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, are you busy? We've just had a death at the Tesco's just down the way from your flat. Kind of a weird one. Young woman, seems healthy enough, but she's got blood dripping from her eyes. It's probably just a drug overdose, according to the employees she was a bit wobbly on her feet before she collapsed, but since it's so close I thought you might pop down and have a look."

Sherlock shot John a glance before replying. "Of course, we'll be right down. And Lestrade, don't let anyone go too near the body until we get there, just in case."

Sherlock hung up the phone and looked at Donny, then stood up, straightening his jacket. "It appears we'll be taking the case."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I didn't have this beta'd, and I'm an American myself, so I'm not sure if I have this procedure right.

I understand the HPA is a little like the equivalent of the American CDC (kinda…) so I've just been using

one in place of the other. If this is wrong, feel free to correct me!

Disclaimer: If any of this belonged to me, I wouldn't be writing about it here.

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Sherlock swept onto the scene, all wild curls and swaying coat, with John close on his heels. Donny had

been left at Baker Street, in the capable hands of Mrs. Hudson, cuppa in hand and pained expression on

his face.

Donovan and Anderson were hovering around a body as they reached Lestrade in front of the automatic

glass doors. Lestrade held up a hand to his team before addressing Sherlock and John, bringing them

through the police tape.

"The victim's right over there, no ID, not much to go on. Seems to be just another junkie but the eyes

thing… just thought that was a bit weird, thought you ought to have a look."

Sherlock leaned over to glance at the body. The woman was lying facedown on the floor, head tilted

toward them so they could see the slowly congealing blood pooled at her tear ducts. She was young

and attractive, dark hair, olive skin and light eyes. She was wearing a dress that would have been more

at home in some shady nightclub, and designer stiletto heels. Sherlock caught John's eye and nodded

toward her. It didn't take long for the doctor to notice the flash of gold on her left wrist; A men's watch-

at least five decades old, and much too big for her. John gave Sherlock a pained expression and nodded.

They looked at Lestrade.

"Has anyone touched the body yet?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Anderson, who was glaring back at him from beside the body.

"No, not yet. We're still waiting for the coroner's office to arrive. Why?"

"We have reason to believe that she was infected with the Thornburg virus." John replied, seriously.

"Thornburg virus?" Anderson scoffed, coming up behind them "That's ridiculous, there's never been a case of Thornburg in the UK."

"There's never been a case in the UK _before now,_ obviously." Sherlock snarked. "Even you must be able to see the symptoms match, Anderson."

"Oh, you just want to make this case dramatic and high-profile so you can feel _special_." Anderson spat, heading toward the body. "I'll prove this is not any stupid virus—"

"Get away from that body, That's an order!" Lestrade barked at the forensic expert's retreating back.

"You can't be serious!" Sally whined, giving the Detective Inspector an incredulous look.

"I don't want to take the chance." He replied. "I'll call the HPA."

Sherlock snapped a few photos on his camera phone, and told Lestrade to text him when the results

came in. John was steered back toward Baker Street, as Sherlock leaned over to mutter at him.

"Those clothes, her perfume, Donny's watch. That woman is a prostitute, I'm sure of it. He must have run into her last night."

"Well, let's see what he can remember about her." John agreed.

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Back at the flat, Sherlock whipped out his phone and handed it to Donny.

"Do you recognize this woman?"

Donny squinted at the screen, thinking hard. "No, but… is she dead?"

"Yes, obviously. And she was wearing this—" He flashed another picture at his client, this time of the dead woman's wrist.

"Oh, God. That's my watch!" Donny raked his eyes over the doctor and detective, horrified. "Did I kill her?"

"No, no, Donny, you didn't kill her." John said, putting a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly behind them. "Well… not directly anyway." He amended. "But she did have blood dripping from her eyes."

Donny sputtered for a moment. "She had Thornburg?"

"It's a possibility." John said.

"We're waiting for the test results to come back to confirm, but if she had your watch it is safe to assume she had your cooler, as well."

Donny trembled and began to hyperventilate, spitting out incomplete words of panic. John sat him down, easing him into his own armchair.

"Donny, calm down. Breathe as slowly as you can," he said soothingly. "Listen, if we're going to get to the bottom of this, we need to figure out who this woman is—"John threw up a silencing hand as Sherlock started to say something. The doctor glared at his flatmate, not wanting to panic Donny further with the knowledge of the woman's profession. "Are you sure you've never seen her before?"

Donny squinted at the photo again and Sherlock's mobile was passed back to him with the picture of the dead woman. "I—I—I don't…" his eyes widened suddenly "Wait! I remember!"

He stood up and started pacing the room as hazy, blurred memories came back to him. "We were drinking together last night…"

"Do you remember where?" Sherlock asked impatiently

"No, but, er…" He screwed his eyes shut, trying to will the details back into his mind "The place had a

bunch of tiki torches!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course…" he breathed. "Come on, John. I know where we need to start.

You're coming, too." He shot back at Donny, as thundered down the stairs and back out onto the street.

Donny looked at John as they followed the detective out. "Is he always like this?"

"Yeah. I've found it's best not to question him. Better for your blood pressure."


	3. Chapter 3

Death is in the Air, Chapter 3

A/N: I don't know what's going on with my scene breaks, so if someone wants to correct me on how to use them for this site, I'll welcome the lesson. Nothing I try seems to be working. Also, I'm trying to break this down into bite-size chapters, without making them too frustratingly short. Here's hoping I'm finding a good balance.

Disclaimer: I could be wrong… but I think I don't own any of these guys… no matter how much I wish I did.

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The three men strode gamely into the room, so garishly decorated with false palm fronds, covered tiki torches, and carefully tended hibiscus flowers. It looked, frankly, ridiculous in contrast to the grey, overcast London skies outside.

"How do you know this is where we were drinking last night?" Donny gaped.

"This is the only place in London that would be so gauche to decorate with," Sherlock sneered at the word "_tiki_ torches. Everywhere else in the city has more sense than this."

"Plus, it's the bar attached to your hotel." John added, rolling his eyes at his flatmate's overly disdainful description of the place. He happened to like the décor. It reminded him of a holiday he'd taken with an Army mate to Hawaii.

As they approached, the barman looked up at them. He was a heavy man, with chocolate skin and laughing eyes. He grinned as they came up to him.

"Hey! There he is!" He nudged his co-worker behind him, who eyed Donny with a chuckle. The barman shot them a glance, and reached into a cupboard above his head. "I have something of yours; you left it here last night."

His arm disappeared above him and came down with an object in his hand. He flashed them a smile as he slid a rainbow-colored clown wig across the bar. Sherlock, Donny and John relaxed. It was unlikely this mass of brightly-colored fibers was soaked with a deadly virus. "Do you remember wearing this? You were going on, calling yourself Rainbow Man, looking a real sight." He laughed good-naturedly at their perplexed faces.

"Yeah, about that…" John said, picking up the wig and passing it to Sherlock, who looked at it as if it were something slimy and rotted. "We're actually here to help, er, _Rainbow Man_ fill in some of the blanks from last night. He's a little fuzzy on the details."

"I'm sure." Said the barman, nodding approvingly at Donny "He, and this gorgeous brunette, had probably twenty tequila shots last night."

"You don't happen to remember the girl's name, do you?"

He thought for a moment, "I think I heard him call her Passion."

"Do you know where they—Sherlock?" John's eyes followed the detective as he started striding away, mid-conversation.

"Never mind, John! I know where they went."

John and Donny looked at each other, and followed him out, but not before good doctor noticed a few green and yellow curls sticking out of the rubbish bin.

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Sherlock unlocked the door to room 106—Donny's hotel room. He'd pickpocketed the key from his client in the bar, while Donny was busy panicking that the barman was about to pull a cooler full of deadly virus from his glass cupboard. The door to the cheap hotel room swung open, revealing a rumpled bed, an overnight bag in one corner (Donny's), and a few minute clues that were only visible to The World's Only Consulting Detective.

"I can't believe I took her back to my room… I never do that." Donny was saying as he and John entered the tiny suite. "I must be better than I thought, to nab a girl like that."

"Don't be ridiculous, she was a prostitute." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. He was dipping his head below the nightstand to examine the underside with his pocket magnifying glass.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sherlock…" he said warningly.

"What, really?" Donny looked desperately at John, as if to beg him to say it wasn't true. John put his hand on Donny's shoulder sympathetically. "Donny, think about it. You met her in your hotel bar—"

"And she was calling herself _Passion_" Sherlock scoffed "Nobody willingly calls themselves that unless they're a tart."

Donny visibly deflated. "Well, at least I got a leg over," he mumbled, miserably.

"Don't be so sure." The detective retorted. "The bedding is rumpled, but there's no trace of body fluid on the sheets. Only your hair on the pillows, none that could belong to a woman…" he leaned over the pillowcases with his magnifying glass, and then inhaled deeply through his nose. "No perfume residue on the linens, either." Sherlock straightened up, and looked at the other two men. "Your friend targeted you. She intended to get you inebriated, wait until you lost consciousness, and take anything that might have been of value. Fairly common among the less-clever women of the criminal classes."

Sherlock's phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket, tapping the answer key. "Lestrade."

"Sherlock, you were right. The bloodwork came back from St. Bart's, courtesy of Doctor Hooper. Our bird from this morning had Thornburg."

"I know I was right, I told you this morning. I also know she was a prostitute."

The DI sighed on the other end of the line. "I'm not going to ask how you know that, but yes, right again. Her name was Jennifer Costitas. We searched her flat for whatever might have infected her, but we didn't turn up anything."

"You'll be looking for a small, portable cooler. The vial should be inside."

"Cooler? No, there was nothing like that at all."

Sherlock made a face, and mouthed to John "She didn't have the cooler." John frowned and furrowed his brow in concern.

"Are you sure?

"Yes, Sherlock, we're not stupid. There was no cooler. The only thing a bit out of the ordinary was ten thousand quid in cash in a fresh envelope."

Sherlock's face froze a moment. He murmured "Hang on," into the phone before looking at the men across from him. "She had ten thousand pounds in cash in her flat."

"I didn't have any cash on me at all, nevermind ten thousand quid."

"Someone hired her to steal the sample." Sherlock raised the phone back to his ear. "Alright, Lestrade. Text me if you find anything else."

"Oh, there was one more thing. We found a hotel key for some cheap place near Heathrow."

"For room 106?"

"No, but you're not far off. It was room 128."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together, "128…" he frowned slightly, "Alright. Keep me appraised."

The detective bolted from the room, motioning for the others to follow him. A few hallways away, the arrived at the door bearing the number 128 to find it being opened by the head of the cleaning staff.

"Excuse me! Madam, the headmaster of your daughter's school is on the phone in the lobby. It seems she's gotten herself in a spot of trouble, again." Sherlock made an earnest face at the maid, who huffed angrily and set off down the hall immediately muttering something about someone not being a prefect next year. John and Donny made a silent agreement not to waste anyone's time with how he had deduced that was the perfect distraction for her.

When the maid turned down the hall out of sight, they ducked into the open door and looked around. Sherlock touched John's arm and nodded to the nightstand by the bed. "Look, John." The doctor clapped his eyes on a box of medical-grade latex gloves, opened. "There's only one pair missing." Sherlock said, peering into the opening of the container.

"I'm going to call the front desk." John offered, picking up the phone.

The room turned out to be registered to a "Joe Briggs" and was paid for upfront, in cash. When Donny couldn't follow how this fit in to the prostitute, Sherlock explained in a long-suffering voice. "Whoever paid for this room hired her to steal the cooler from you." He began pacing around the room, trying to think with the weight of Donny's thickness in the air. "She must have gotten curious and opened up the container before she handed it over."

"Why would someone want to buy the virus?"

John came around Donny's other side with the answer. "Could be any number of reasons. Biological weapon seems the most obvious choice."

"Indeed…" Sherlock muttered as his eyes fell on the rubbish bin at his feet. There was an empty coffee cup, and a completed discount punch card, which had "void" written on it in highlighter, both bearing the words "Coffee to a Tea."

He looked up and smiled companionably. "Coffee, anyone?"

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John, Donny and Sherlock walked up the street to see Lestrade pulling up in his car, with Anderson in the passenger seat. Both men climbed out, and kept pace with them as they walked by.

"Where's Sergeant Donovan?" John asked

"She's down at the station, trying to find anything that might connect Costitas to some kind of crime syndicate. See if she may have known anyone who would want to buy anything this dangerous."

"She's wasting her time, then." Sherlock said as they approached the door to the coffee shop. "Miss Costitas had never met her buyer before yesterday, or she wouldn't have kept our client's watch. Couldn't risk upsetting a contact by keeping part of the cut from them."

Sherlock threw his long arm to the side as he came up to the glass front, preventing anyone from trying to pull the door open. He swept his blue-grey eyes over the scene inside, and quickly grabbed a broom that was propped up against the outside wall. He jammed the broom through the looped doorhandles, barricading everyone inside. A weary looking man in his late fifties rattled the doors from the inside, trying to dislodge the blockage. "Hey!"

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Sherlock?" snapped the DI. Sherlock pointed to the far corner of the room inside the shop, where a small glass medical vial lay shattered on the floor, liquid seeping around the broken shards.

John murmured apologetically, "I don't think anyone will be going anywhere for a while, Greg."


	4. Chapter 4

Death Is In The Air: Chapter 4

A/N: So there are a few things in this chapter that are harder to get across in text than on-air, so bear with me. If it seems like I'm spending an inordinate amount of time on minute details, that's why. Also, because I couldn't seem to find any material on what happens to the clothes of people exposed to hazardous material of this nature, I'm operating on the assumption that it gets incinerated. I don't know if that's actually true, and if anyone knows, feel free to PM me, but that's what I'm going with. And I finally got some variety of scene break to work for me. That was making me crazy.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.

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Sally Donovan strode around the corner to the parking lot of the café. "Looks like the HPA are more or less done here. Everyone inside has been moved to quarantine at Saint Bart's." She pursed her lips together, trying and failing to hide the smirk on her face.

DI Lestrade, Anderson, John, Sherlock and Donny were all standing naked in the cool evening air, being showered and scrubbed in little tarp cubicles set up in the parking lot. Each person was blocked from view for the most part, but their head and shoulders were still visible above the obstructions. Their scrubbing was being assisted by people in Hazmat suits, standing behind them with hoses and large brushes that looked more like industrial brooms. None of the men looked happy, but Donny seemed used to the treatment at least, while Lestrade was particularly stroppy about the situation.

"You can wipe that smile of your face, Donovan. Don't forget that I'm still your superior!" Lestrade snapped irritably. "Is this really necessary? We didn't even go inside!"

"Oh, it's necessary," Donny replied, from the cubicle next to him. "Thornburg is particularly nasty, so the HPA doesn't want to take any chances with it."

Anderson and Lestrade both glanced at Donny, then back at Sherlock and John for explanation. "And just who the hell is this?" Anderson asked

"Oh, I'm Donny Lieberman." He extended his hand to the forensics expert for a shake "I'm the guy who let the virus get stolen, and let everything go pear-shaped." He smiled apologetically.

Anderson looked at his outstretched hand incredulously "Not big on bare-arsed handshakes, thanks." He turned to Lestrade, and sputtered as his already limp hair was hosed down and fell into his eyes. "He is right though, unfortunately. They're just being safe in case the pathogen was airborne."

Behind him, in two side by side cubicles, were the good doctor and the consulting detective having a small "domestic", as Mrs. Hudson would call it.

"This morning, we were looking at a dead prostitute, now I'm starkers in a parking lot, being scrubbed down by a stranger. I feel like this possibility should have been listed under your worst qualities as a flatmate, Sherlock. Violin at all hours, boredom tantrums, possibility of public humiliation via a deadly pathogen. Maybe you should include that for your next flatmate."

"It's for our own safety, John." Sherlock snapped, no happier about the public scrub-down than his friend. "Besides," he glanced at John's shoulder where the scar stood out in relief from the rest of his lightly muscled body. "It's not as if you have anything to hide." The words tumbled out before he realized what he was saying. Inwardly, he started to panic. This was not the ideal time to have a personal crisis regarding his slowly building attraction to the ex-army doctor.

If he was honest, he'd noticed it long ago. Never having had a friend before, he chalked it up to a normal reaction to close friendship. The little things that John did for him—the endless cups of tea which remained mostly untouched. The ongoing comments about needing to eat and sleep more that went ignored. While he didn't often act on them, these things made a strange warm glow spread in Sherlock's belly that made him smile, and his heart ache. Right now, the detective shook he thought out of his head, and the water from his hair. He was on a case, and one the was getting more interesting by the minute, at that. He did not have the time or energy to be examining these frankly alarming… _sentiments_. He mentally shuddered at the thought of what Mycroft would say if he knew his brother's soft spot for his flatmate was growing ever more distracting.

John, thankfully, didn't seem to notice Sherlock's internal struggle. "That doesn't mean I care to be on display for all of London!" he snapped. "This case had better get closed soon, before there's nothing left of my dignity."

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John pulled at the collar of the hospital scrubs that had been given to them to replace their clothes, which would now be incinerated, in case they were carrying traces of the virus. John was all prepared to gloat at how losing his precious coat would serve Sherlock right for all this, but the mad detective managed to sneak it and his scarf away with one of his irregulars. He was about to blow the whistle, citing that it was dangerous to wear something that could be infected, but Sherlock had given him the most woeful, pleading look he'd ever seen in his life. John's heart hadn't stood a chance. It was that same look that made him forgive the man for drugging his coffee in Baskerville, and for keeping human heads in the fridge. Besides, it wasn't his fault that some madman was hell-bent on infecting the city with a deadly virus, and that coat was part of what made Sherlock so maddeningly distinctive. So, John conceded in the end, reasonably certain that the coat was fine anyway, (he didn't want to consider the idea that his flatmate might make _sure_ it was by irradiating it in their kitchen. The fewer questions asked there, the better.) and the garments were whisked away by one of the members of his homeless network.

When they had arrived at St. Bart's half an hour ago, Donny was taken into quarantine with the café patrons, since he was around the virus more than the others. After changing, they were advised to meet with a Thornburg specialist who had been flown in from the States to help assess the situation. In the temporary lab that had been set up outside the quarantine area, the found him handling petri dishes with exquisite care.

"Doctor, " Lestrade called, reaching to shake the man's hand as he introduced himself. "Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade." The expert took a step back from his workspace, holding up his hands as if in surrender. He indicated the heavy rubber gloves he was wearing as an explanation for not shaking the DI's hand. He had dark smudges under his eyes, no doubt from the long flight he had taken before jumping directly into his work. He wore his chestnut hair in a short, conservative style, and sported a bottlebrush mustache and serious, no-nonsense eyes.

"Doctor Steven Raymond. Thornburg specialist, United States CDC."

Lestrade nodded understandingly at the gesture and dropped his hand. John's eyes went alight when he heard the name.

"Steven Raymond? You're the foremost authority on Thornburg, aren't you? I read the article you wrote on it a few months back."

Raymond nodded. "The foremost authority in all seven continents." He didn't seem particularly pleased with the assessment, just explained it matter-of-factly. Clearly he was not a man of undue pride. "I had this hospital prepared as soon as I heard the virus had been stolen. The good news is, between the café patrons in isolation, and the courier carrying the sample, only two patients are showing the early signs of Thornburg infection."

"Only two?" Lestrade replied, sounding relieved. "Thank God."

"I would hazard a guess," Raymond continued "that they touched the sample in some way, since the virus is not typically effective as an aerosol."

"So you mean we got stripped down in public for nothing?" snipped Anderson. All eyes turned to him with piercing glares, and he quieted instantly.

"As I was saying, normally one would have to come into direct contact with an infected person's secretions to become at risk. Furthermore, if any of these patients' conditions worsen, there is a lab less than two hours away that is working on an antiviral that has shown positive results in early testing."

"That would be Genutech." Sherlock interjected. "Our courier picked up the sample from them yesterday. When will the antiviral arrive?"

"En route as we speak. And since our culprit has already used his sample, I think it's safe to say that we have the situation pretty well bottled up. We were quite lucky, really. This could have been much worse if they had chosen a higher-traffic area in which to release the virus."

"We need to get an ID on whoever is responsible for this. Is it safe to interview the patients?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. Just be sure to wear the Hazmat suits."

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A few minutes later, Sherlock and John were speaking with the patients, trying to get an idea of what had gone on before they arrived on the scene. Sherlock, of course, had managed to insult six of them within two minutes of entering their rooms, including one particularly pretty woman that John had been keen to chat with. Unfortunately, Sherlock declared her "soiled by a series of particularly nasty STDs" and they were promptly asked to leave.

John and Sherlock were stripping off their Hazmat suits as they discussed the interviews. Sherlock was displeased that he had not been able to interview everyone, but seemed satisfied that nobody had seen anything overly suspicious. Not that it meant much to him.

"These imbeciles wouldn't notice anything suspicious if their neighbor was standing over them with a bloody knife in hand."

"Not everyone can be as observant as you, Sherlock." John replied, without conviction. He too was a little disappointed that they had no more information than they did an hour ago.

"I think we should pay a visit to the Genutech lab. Perhaps they had a disgruntled employee or something that might help us get a handle on this."

"Well, we've got nothing else to go on, might as well. But we're going by the flat, first. I wore scrubs for years in med school, I'm not anxious to be in them any longer."

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Sherlock, back in his sweeping coat, strode into the Genutech labs, approaching a young man at the workbench in the center of the room.

"Excuse me, "He said, flashing Lestrade's ID in the man's face. "We're with the Yard, working with the HPA on the Thornburg outbreak."

"Look, mate. I already told the man that we shipped all the antivirals we had in storage." He replied irritably.

"You shipped all your supplies for two sick patients?" John asked.

"Apparently they need everything we have to give. Doctor Raymond said that the first patient needed four times the dosage that we'd estimated. Plus, he wants to have it administered to everyone in quarantine, just to be safe."

"So are you getting more prepared, then?"

"Well, no. Not yet. We were shut down last week."

Sherlock and John shot a look between them. The detective was the first to speak again. "Shut down? Why?"

"Well, Thornburg wasn't considered a serious threat, since there had been no major outbreaks in first-world countries, so we lost our funding. But all these people getting sick is good news." The man smiled, and then abruptly backtracked when he saw the looks on their faces. "Er, good for the lab, I mean. And for Doctor Mallin, of course."

"Sorry, Doctor Mallin?" John asked, cocking his head.

"Oh, this is his lab. Curing Thornburg is his life's work, he even got the funding to open this place a few years ago. _And_ if this thing gets worse," he smiled gleefully again "we might be able to get back to work."

"I see," Sherlock drawled, giving John a significant glance, and nodding to an unoccupied workstation behind them. "Excuse us a moment." He said to the lab tech they had been speaking with.

They turned their backs on the rest of the lab and spoke in hushed tones. "So this Doctor Mallin spends years working on a cure for Thornburg, then his lab gets shut down, loses its funding. Then, by some miracle, there's an outbreak in London a few days later."

"He took a sample of the virus, releases it to infect enough people to force the government to put his lab back in business." John frowned as he spoke, horrified that someone who had taken the Hippocratic Oath would deliberately hurt people for his own purposes.

The pair turned back to the lab tech who had been so helpful to them thus far. "Is it possible to speak with Doctor Mallin?" John asked politely.

"He's not here, I'm afraid. I'm not really sure where he is—he hasn't answered his mobile at all today. But, I think there's some paperwork with his address on it in that box." He indicated a white cardboard container on the shelf behind him. "It's all the things left over from his office when it was emptied."

They nodded their thanks, and took the box down to rifle through it. They pulled out a few papers that seemed to have come from the doctor's desk. Theatre programmes, address books, and a photo of the man who could only be Mallin in a fishing vest, in front of a country cabin. Sherlock snatched the framed photo from John's hand, and stared determinedly at it. The man in the photograph was the same weary-faced patron from the café earlier that day.

"John, look!" Sherlock hissed, pointing it out "This man was the one who rattled the doors at me in the café. He's already in quarantine at St. Barts." The detective dialed Lestrade, deciding he needed an answer faster than a text could give him. Lestrade's voice came on the other line strained, clearly in stress.

"We're a bit busy at the moment, Sherlock."

"What happened?"

"One of the patients who tested positive for the virus broke out of the hospital before he was treated."

"Let me guess, tall, thin, sallow-skinned. Badly in need of hair plugs?"

"Yeah, how did you know that?"

"Nevermind. I wouldn't worry about him being ill. He has his own supply of the antiviral."

"What makes you say that?"

"His name is Mallin. He developed the antiviral himself, and stole it to release when his lab went under."

"Bloody Hell…" The DI groaned.

"Could be worse, "John added to Sherlock. "At least he only had the one vial, and he's already used that."

"Excuse me?"

They turned around to see the lab tech they had been speaking with moments before. The young man cleared his throat again. "We gave the courier three vials of the sample, not one."

The color drained from John's face as he turned back to Sherlock, who spoke in calm tones into the phone.

"Lestrade, we may have more of a problem than we thought."


	5. Chapter 5

Death is In The Air: Chapter 5

A/N: We're getting close to the end, folks! One more chapter after this! I want to take a moment to thank everyone who's reviewed and/or followed this story. You have been most encouraging, and I'll call this a resounding success, especially for my first story!

Also, I know in the UK flashlights are usually referred to as "torches," but remember that Dr. Raymond is American. So, no need to PM me about that.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own Sherlock, and neither do you.

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The tension in the air at Scotland Yard was palpable. Everyone was on edge with the prospect of a man carrying a dangerous biohazard on their minds. Lestrade and Donovan were giving a briefing on finding Doctor Mallin, showing all available photos of him, and instructing their troops not to confront him without backup.

Doctor Raymond stepped forward to give his expertise on the matter. "Remember, "he said, "The best place for Mallin to release the virus is in a large public area, preferably with heavy foot traffic."

"That describes a thousand places in London, he could be going anywhere!" Anderson snarked from the back of the briefing room.

"Wrong!" called Sherlock, as he stepped forward. John saw Donovan roll her eyes, and cross her arms over her chest. Sherlock either didn't see or didn't care. "Mallin had in his desk a programme for a repertory theatre in Brixton, and a map of the bus lines from the Victoria Coach station. Since the bus station has heavier foot traffic, and higher population turnover, that is the most logical place for him to release the vial."

"I have to agree with Mr. Holmes, here." Raymond said "I would put my money on the bus station as well."

"Alright, guys, you heard the man!" Donovan called. "Let's go!"

As they were exiting the Yard, Doctor Raymond murmured to himself, "Remarkable… I would love to get a sample of his DNA for study…" as he looked directly at the consulting detective. He must have been heard, because Sherlock then whipped around and gave the man an insincere smile.

"Better men than you have tried."

John couldn't suppress a grin at the look on Raymond's face. He clapped the man on the shoulder amicably. "He means no disrespect, Doctor. I'm pretty sure doing any kind of study on Sherlock's DNA could only lead to destruction."

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Lestrade and company, all in plainclothes, approached the Victoria Coach station, getting last minute instructions from the DI. "Remember, don't start a panic. We don't need that kind of pandemonium—it'll be too easy for the suspect to get away."

Anderson brought up the rear, muttering about how he was forensics, and why should he be dragged into all this nonsense?

"Anderson, catching this guy is our number one priority." Lestrade answered over his shoulder. "We need all hands on deck for this one. "

"But why are _they_ still with us?" Lestrade didn't need to look where he was indicating to know he meant John and Sherlock, who were talking a few yards away. "Mallin already knows what they look like. If he sees them he'll run—"He stopped talking abruptly as he heard the sickening _crunch_ of breaking glass under his shoe.

"Oh, Bloody hell…" Anderson cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting so the crowd could hear him. "Everyone! Stay away from this area! You may have already been exposed to a deadly biological agent! It is imperative that you do not leave, because you could spread it to your loved ones, and kill them!"

As he finished shouting, Lestrade, John, Sherlock, Sally and Doctor Raymond approached him to get a better look at what was going on. Everyone gave the forensics expert and wide berth, allowing Raymond to examine the glass under the man's shoe, pulling a disposable breathing mask over his face as he did so. The doctor picked up something with a large pair of tweezers, standing up so that Anderson could see what it was he stepped on.

"Sir, this appears to be a broken replacement lightbulb for a battery-operated flashlight."

Anderson's shoulders slumped with relief, as everyone around him glared exasperatedly. The crowd went back about their business, while John and Sherlock barely suppressed their giggles. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Maybe you were right. I should have left you at the Yard, after all."

Sherlock, still grinning turned to enter the station. Between the gaps in the crowd, he spotted a familiar greying, haggard face.

"There!" He shouted, pointing at Mallin. The man himself clutched at the metal case he carried over his shoulder, turned and ran full speed into the station.

As he did his best to evade capture, Mallin threw the luggage waiting in the aisles behind him and tripped passengers as they passed him. The Yarders kept up a close pace, but it was Sherlock and his mile-long legs that stayed with him, vaulting over suitcases and prone bodies trying to keep him from escaping. Sherlock's fingers brushed the back of Mallin's jacket, but at that moment the man misstepped. Both Mallin and Holmes tumbled arse-over teakettle, knocking the latch on the metal case open. All eyes watched in horror as a delicate glass vial spilled out, and went rolling across the station floor. A distracted traveler, talking on his mobile kicked the sealed vial at an angle, rolling it toward—oh, no—a riding floor waxer. The little glass tube was swept into the spinning brushes, and flung out again into the air in a raising arc. Sherlock scrambled up from on top of Mallin, launching himself toward the sample as it hurtled to the floor. The detective's arm hit the tile a fraction of a second before the vial did, and it landed softly in his outstretched palm.

By the time Sherlock stood up, virus in hand, Mallin was gone—escaped during the confusion and panic. John rushed to his side, ashen-faced, with Raymond a second behind him. A cursory examination of the sample confirmed that the seal was still intact. After a sweep of the station, no other broken glass or pieces of vials were found-this crisis was temporarily averted. Lestrade sent his officers to the Brixton theatre, hoping to head off the next attempt at biohazard release. As he watched their retreating backs, Sherlock's eyes furrowed in thought. John saw his expression, and gave him a questioning look.

"He's not going to the theatre." Sherlock said. "Mallin was leaving the station when we spotted him, and he still had both of the remaining samples."

"Why would he leave without releasing the virus?"

"He was limping as well, and sweating profusely." Sherlock exhaled deeply, pressing his fingers together over his lips. "The man is ill, he has Thornburg. He likely began showing symptoms when he arrived and decided to abort."

"But I thought you said he had his own store of the antiviral?"

"He does, but it wasn't enough. The first patient needed a much higher dosage than they anticipated. He must have realized that he needed more before he would be cured."

"Where would he be going then?"

"Isn't it obvious? St Bart's! Come along, John. If we hurry we can beat him there. I'll text Lestrade on the way."

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Stumbling, coughing and swearing, Mallin wretched open the door of the darkened and unattended St Bart's lab. He tossed his backpack aside roughly, making his way over to the small pharmaceutical store within the lab. With shaking hands, he knocked over bottles of serums and pills searching for his goal. He turned with a start as he heard an insistent tapping from behind him. Behind a glass panel, with only a dual-doored miniature vacuum chamber between them, was Sherlock Holmes, holding up a tiny bottle. Behind him, DI Lestrade and Doctor John Watson watched with cold eyes.

"Looking for this? It's the last of your cure."

Mallin scrambled desperately toward the detective. "Give it to me!" He screeched.

"We know everything, Mallin. We know you did all this to save your laboratory."

Mallin gave him an incredulous look. "That's not why!" He coughed raggedly into his sleeve. "By shutting us down, denying Thornburg is a danger, they've left us all—the whole country!—open to attack! Do you know how easily this could be made a weapon? But now, after this, we'll be ready."

John murmured in Sherlock's ear. "Not exactly your garden variety madman explanation…"

Sherlock turned his attention back toward the man on the other side of the glass. "You're sick, you're dying. It took more medicine than you thought. "He held the bottle up again. "I'll make you a trade. The last vial of the virus, for the last of your cure."

Mallin nodded, picking up his discarded knapsack. He undid the zip, and pulled out a small plastic cooler- the very same that had been stolen from Donny Lieberman. Bright orange biohazard warning stickers glared accusingly from its surface as he made his way over to the chamber. "Let me see it!"

Sherlock had his hand on the small door on his side of the compartment as Mallin laid hands on its twin from his side. "At the same time." The detective demanded.

The two men made the exchange in the small glass compartment that separated them, each hastily taking their prize. Mallin began tearing his side of the lab apart, searching for a syringe with which to administer the drug. Sherlock hurriedly passed the cooler to John, who opened the latch to examine the contents with latex-covered hands.

"You idiot!" Mallin screamed, shoving the bottle of antiviral against the glass. "There's not enough here for a whole dose!"

"Tell us where we can get more!" Lestrade shouted

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John who was still rummaging in the cooler. "John, is the vial there?"

"Yeah, but it's—" Lestrade came around Sherlock's other side as he was answered, and in his rush, bumped gently against the ex-army doctor. Bent over the cooler, John interrupted himself with a hiss of pain.

Sherlock's heart froze. He started toward his friend, but John backed away from him desperately. "No, Sherlock, don't come any closer!"

It was like the detective's worst nightmare made real. John held up his right hand, where a glistening drop of garnet blood welled up on his index finger from behind the tear in the thin latex. "The vial was broken…" The doctor breathed.

Sherlock threw himself against the glass and roared at Mallin "Where is the rest of your cure! We can still save you both!"

"No! It's too late!" Mallin coughed more violently, blood starting to collect around his tear ducts. He dropped to his knees on the hospital floor, choking out words as best he could. "Victoria!"

"Who's Victoria?" Sherlock demanded

"Two hours… from here. Victoria!" Mallin collapsed to the floor, hacking his last breath from his lungs. He stilled on the tile in under a minute, while Lestrade and Sherlock to turned back to John. The DI darted upstairs to get help, leaving Sherlock to gape at his flatmate, his only friend.

_"I've just seen twelve-to-fourteen hours into John's future on the other side of that glass…"_ he thought to himself. And for the first time in recent memory, he desperately hoped he was wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

Death is In The Air: Chapter 6

A/N: This is it everybody! I want to thank you all for your support, you've been wonderful and deserve all the digital cookies! You've made my very first story a great experience, and I hope I've entertained you for a little while.

A quick note: Normally I do at least a little bit of research before I put out a chapter, but for this one I had to fly by the seat of my pants a bit. There is no such place as "Lake Victoria" in or around London as far as I'm aware, and if there was, it would bear no resemblance to what is described here. I already know that, but you're just going to have to suspend your belief and work with me on this one.

And I'm sure you've seen this before, but anything in italics that's not part of a sentence already is intended to be a thought process, not something said out loud.

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Two hours later, John stared up at the ceiling of his little hospital room. He looked so much smaller than he had any right to look, in Sherlock's opinion. John was supposed to be the strong one, the grounded one, the one with all the stoic wisdom. Where did he get off contracting a deadly virus and leaving Sherlock to deal with the consequences?

"I think it's probable he contracted the virus… in which case he'll need the antiviral as soon as possible." Doctor Raymond's voice was saying from a long way away. Sherlock leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window to John's room—Thanks to an uncomfortable call to Mycroft, John had gotten a large, airy, private room. He hadn't wanted to call his brother, but for John… anything that might help in any tiny way was worth anything the British Government had to say on the matter.

Not that Mycroft had said much. The conversation was shockingly void of any of the elder Holmes's signature snide remarks, and he had seemed genuinely concerned for the welfare of the ex-army doctor. Lestrade was giving the detective a sidelong glance. He was probably thinking some tripe about how best to comfort Sherlock, or tell him everything was going to be alright. Sherlock was grateful that the DI instead chose silence as his best option. Doctor Raymond was saying that a disposable mask and latex gloves would be enough protection if they decided to go inside, and left just as the soft tapping of obscenely expensive shoes came up on Sherlock's other side.

"Afternoon, Detective-Inspector. Brother. How is Doctor Watson?"

Lestrade answered when it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to. "They're running tests now, but the chances are good that he contracted the virus. We've got to find out where Mallin hid the rest of his antiviral, or…" He trailed off, looking worriedly into John's room. John himself, was looking at his hands now, pointedly ignoring the three men outside.

"We need to find out who this Victoria is…" Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"That could be anyone, though." Lestrade said, oblivious to the thought that Sherlock hadn't meant for him to answer. "Girlfriend, relative, maybe. I've got everyone I can spare in the department working on it, but who knows how long that'll take."

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor beside his little brother. "Come now, Sherlock. Don't be so pedestrian." He placed a hand on the detective's shoulder. "Your gaze is too narrow, and it's not at all becoming of you."

"If you have something helpful to say, then say it, Mycroft." Sherlock spat "I don't have time for your cryptic games."

"Neither does Doctor Watson. But that doesn't change that you are ignoring a rather obvious possibility."

Sherlock straightened up, with his face twisted in rage. He sniffed heavily, ready to lay into his brother, when he caught the gently knowing gaze. His anger melted away when he looked into Mycroft's eyes. The man wasn't trying to rile him, not really. For the first time in years, his eyes were gentle. It was a glimpse of a brother he hadn't seen since their childhood. Obtuse as he was being, he was trying to guide Sherlock in the right direction—he wanted to help, but more than that, he wanted Sherlock to see it for himself.

The detective was silent for a moment, closed his eyes, and began navigating the halls of his mind palace. Between his ears, he traced a web of references tied to "Victoria." Queens featured prominently in this category, but he dismissed them, obviously not what he was looking for. Train stations, historical articles, nothing of _importance!_ He cross-referenced his search with what he knew of Mallin, which admittedly wasn't much. Just the weary, balding man with his _stupid_ lab and his _sodding_ ideals. And now, John, kind John, patient John, John-the-healer, John-the-soldier, the blogger, the _friend_ was going to die! And after all he had done to help with all the cases _including this one,_ running through the station, searching the hotel room, going through the damn box from Mallin's desk, which he didn't even bother to—

Wait.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in realization. The box. The photo. Sherlock quickly cross-referenced Victoria with all the mental maps he had. Lots of extraneous data there, but one tiny blip of a data point blinked rapidly in his mind.

"Victoria's not a person." He breathed.

"What are you on about?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock ignored him, looking instead at his brother. Mycroft's smirk was replaced with a tiny smile of… was that pride? His eyes locked with Sherlock's and he nodded minutely. _There you are. Well done, brother-mine._

"Victoria isn't some_one_, it's some_where_! There's a little lake or something, Lake Victoria, not far is it?" The words shot past his lips rapid-fire.

"Yeah, Lake Victoria, I know the place you mean. It's barely a little pond, maybe an hour and a half, two hours away, I think. Me dad and I used to fish there."

"Mallin had a cabin there, I saw a picture from his desk."

Lestrade pulled the keys to his car from the pocket of his jacket, clapping his hand son Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's get going, then!" and took off toward the exit.

"Yes, of course…" Sherlock said after him, starting to follow. Before he went too far, he glanced back into the hospital room. For the first time John was looking up, and met his eyes. His flatmate gave him a small smile, and a little wave, trying to put on a brave face. He also glanced briefly at Mycroft, and raised his eyebrows. _What is Mycroft here for?_

Sherlock turned back to his brother. "Will you stay with him?"

"Of course, brother."

"Text me if his condition changes." Sherlock started after the DI, but glanced back one more time. _Thank you, My._

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Lestrade and Sherlock approached a tiny wood cabin on the shore of an equally tiny lake. Surrounded on all sides by trees and vegetation, if you hadn't known it was there, you could never find it. It was impossible to just chance upon, and there were no neighbors visible for miles. According to Sergeant Donovan's research, (Lestrade had called her on the drive up) Mallin bought the property about a decade previously.

"It makes perfect sense." Sherlock had said "He could stash quite a lot of the antiviral here, and hide out after he released Thornburg in the city."

Now, the two of them were sneaking around the back of the cabin. There didn't seem to be much by way of protection, but with it so well hidden, who would need it? They approached the small wooden gate at the backyard, when a large, muscular Rottweiler threw itself against the fence and barked to wake the dead.

Both men jumped backwards at the sight of it, and looked at each other, unsure of what to do next. The dog's massive paws pounded at the wooden gate as it continued to jerk forward with every ear-splitting bark.

"Alright," Sherlock said "I'm going to try and beat it to the door." He started to put a foot up to vault over the fence, when Lestrade grabbed the back of his coat collar.

"Don't be stupid…" He paused "Besides, I think I have a better idea. Stay here. And don't move, I mean it, Sherlock!"

He shouted the last instruction over his shoulder, as he jogged back the way he came. Since Sherlock didn't have any better ideas, he obeyed. For now, at least.

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Back at St. Bart's, Mycroft occupied a surprisingly plush chair at John's bedside. His brolly was propped up on the wall beside him, and his breathing was slightly muffled through the pale blue mask he wore. The two men sat in awkward silence for a few minutes. Comfort wasn't exactly a Holmes specialty, as John already knew. Mycroft had explained where Sherlock had gone, but John still wished he'd come in and said it himself. _Though, I suppose it's not all that surprising. It's Sherlock's way to just do things as the thought comes to him…_

"He's quite taken with you, you know." Mycroft said suddenly, snapping John out of his reverie.

"Sorry, what?"

"My brother. He cares for you quite deeply."

John snorted. "He cares for me? Sorry, wasn't it you who said that caring wasn't an advantage?"

"I did. And since when has Sherlock ever listened to me?"

John shrugged. The man had a point. "Yeah, well. He's my friend, flatmate. I put up with him better than anyone else, so I guess that had to count for something."

Mycroft shook his head. "That's not what I mean." He looked pointedly at the doctor over the top of his mask. "You don't know the extent of your effect on him. Sometimes I don't think he realizes himself."

"What d'you mean?"

"He's…" the elder Holmes seemed to search for the right word. "Calmer, since you arrived."

"If this is calmer, I'd hate to see excitable."

"It's not just that. You must have noticed that you seem to be the only one capable of getting him to listen."

"He doesn't listen to me—"

"He does. More than you know." Mycroft turned in his chair to face John more directly. "He tries for you. More than anyone else I've ever seen, he wants to please you." He caught the look in John's eye. "Well, wants you to be less upset with him than everyone else, anyway. And if there is any cure to be had, he will find it. Because it's you."

John thought about this for a moment. He had noticed that Sherlock seemed to be more in tune with his feelings than anyone else's, but he'd just chalked that up to spending more time around him. If he was honest with himself, he'd seen how Sherlock leaned just a little bit closer to him than anyone else. How he seemed brush off praise from anyone else, but beamed when it came from John. Could the self-proclaimed sociopath actually have opened himself up to John, without him even realizing it? More importantly, what would that mean for John if he had?

He'd be lying to himself if he tried to say he hadn't thought about the mad detective _that way_. In retrospect, if the most observant man in the world thinks you're flirting with him over a dinner table, you probably are. It was true when he told people he wasn't gay. It was just Sherlock that had this effect on him, no other man. He'd accepted that months ago, but also accepted that Sherlock's one and only love was The Work. And that was fine with John, really. He had gone into this expecting nothing more than a flatmate, and if he was lucky, a way to escape the desperate boredom that plagued him after he came home from Afghanistan. He'd gone on his awful attempts at dating, and took a look-but-don't-touch approach to his devastatingly attractive flatmate, and that had worked out well so far. More or less, anyway.

But now? When the person who had the most insight (besides himself, he supposed) was trying to tell him that Sherlock might feel more than he lets on? John wanted to squash the tiny flutter of hope in his chest, so it would be less painful when Sherlock did it for him, but he just couldn't. Besides, not that death really frightened him, (he wouldn't have lasted long as a soldier _or_ a doctor if it did) but Thornburg would render all this a rather moot point if he didn't get the antiviral soon.

He looked up from his internal monologue to see that Mycroft wasn't there anymore. He'd left his umbrella, so he couldn't have gone far, and was sure to return for it. John leaned back onto the pillows, and wondered if Sherlock and Lestrade were having any luck…

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Lestrade had come back from the car with a handful of… Sherlock shuddered, _beef jerky_. Despite his own distaste for this sorry excuse of a snack (nothing that was clearly never meant for human consumption could be called "food"), The dog certainly seemed interested.

"Okay, so if I lob this over the fence and off a bit, it should distract him long enough for us to get by."

"Not bad, but I have an addition to make." Sherlock rifled though his pockets until he found what he was looking for. An untouched prescription bottle of sleep medication that had been made out to John Watson. His idiot therapist had given it to him to help with his nightmares, but the bottle had just set in their medicine cabinet since John moved in. He'd said Sherlock could have it for experimentation if he promised not to slip it into their takeaway when he was bored. The detective had meant to take it to the Yard, in hopes if putting it in Anderson's coffee so he could, in Sherlock's words, _be of more use to the department_. Now, he ground one of the pills between the heels of his palms and sprinkled some over the offensive meat product. The Rottweiler wouldn't need a full dose as a person would, and anyway, he didn't want to kill the mongrel.

Canine curiosity won over the territorial urges as the modified treat went flying over the fence. The jerky was gobbled up greedily before the dog returned to his post. They waited less than ten minutes before the guard keeled over on his side, snoring heartily. Lestrade and Sherlock darted across the yard to the door, where they knew the antiviral lay waiting beyond.

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Antiviral acquired. Lestrade is en route to Raymond now. –SH

Well done, then. Doctor Watson's condition remains unchanged. –MH

Good. Your assistance is no longer required. –SH

You're welcome, little brother. A word of advice: Since you may not have as much time as you thought you would, perhaps you should speak your mind sooner, rather than later. –MH

The last message went ignored, as he knew it would. Mycroft said his goodbyes to John, informing him that Sherlock would be there momentarily. He collected his umbrella, disposed of his mask and gloves, and set off down the hallway, passing Lestrade on his way out. By the time the DI reached John's room, Sherlock was already inside.

He couldn't hear what the detective was saying, but he could see, for the first time, him seem to struggle for words. John looked just as surprised as he did, furrowing his brow, trying to make sense of what was being said to him.

"Good news, Detective-Inspector." Lestrade turned toward the voice. Doctor Raymond was coming up the corridor to John's room.

"Oh, Doctor, there you are. Yes, I know. I just dropped the antiviral off with your staff downstairs, since I couldn't find you."

"Oh. I hadn't been informed of that yet. But it doesn't matter anyway. Doctor Watson doesn't have Thornburg."

Lestrade felt his jaw drop. "What? He doesn't?"

"All his tests came back negative. He's got quite an immune system."

The DI looked at the two men in the room. From the expression on their faces, they were trying to talk about something, but John wasn't following whatever it was. He wondered for a moment if they ought to be interrupted, but he knew they would both want to know that John was in the clear as soon as possible.

"Would you mind if I told him?"

"Be my guest."

Lestrade opened the door and sidled in. "John? A word?"

"Go away, Lestrade. We're having an important conversation." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock you haven't made any damn sense since you came in here. What is it, Greg?"

"No! John, this is important."

"Sherlock, this'll only take a minute," Lestrade ventured

"Please!"

The use of the word "please" surprised both John and Lestrade enough that they both quieted, staring at the detective expectantly. In turn, Sherlock looked back and forth between them, unsure of what to say. After a moment, he ripped the mask from his face and knelt down by the bed.

"Sherlock, what are you-?" John grabbed the fallen mask, trying to smooth it back over his flatmate's nose and mouth, but Sherlock grabbed both his wrists and stilled them, demanding his attention.

"John, I—"He caught the doctor's gaze, with a soft expression neither had ever seen on him before. "I can't stand the thought of losing you—"

"John, you don't have Thornburg!" Lestrade blurted out. He saw where Sherlock was going with this declaration, and he couldn't let him make it without being sure he knew that John was out of danger.

Four eyes fell on him, unblinkingly. "What—are you sure?" John said.

"Yes, Doctor Raymond just told me."

The eyes that were previously on Lestrade, turned to Raymond instead. From the other side of the glass, the American gave them a smile and a thumb's up.

A grin spread over John's face as he leapt up, tearing the various sensors from his skin. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed, consumed by excitement. Sherlock blinked, looking between them, as if he had no idea what to do with this new data.

"I just… thought you ought to know." Lestrade offered to him, by way of explanation.

"Yes, of course. Of course, that's… good." He finished lamely, turning back to John's bright smile. The ex-army doctor was pulling his clothes out of the small dresser and laying them out to get dressed again.

"I'll just call for my discharge papers, shall I? Thanks again, Greg."

"Yes, of course, John. I'll see you around." Lestrade looked over at Sherlock as he slipped out the door. _Good luck…_

Before another word could be said, a nurse was bustling in with John's discharge papers, already looked over by Raymond. A few signatures was all it would take to send them home. Sherlock pulled his mobile out as he left John to finish his paperwork, and dress.

John does not have Thornburg. –SH

I know. –MH

Thanks to some lackey or other of his, Sherlock figured. He frowned at the screen as he waited at the exit for his flatmate. It lit up again as a new message came in.

I still suggest telling him –MH

Is this some ploy of yours to control me?—SH

On the contrary. I still believe love to be a chemical defect. But you seem to be changing your opinion and I have no mind to stop you. –MH

However, if he doesn't know you love him, he'll find someone else. And then he will leave.—MH

That would be… unacceptable. –SH

So the question remains. What do you intend to do about it?—MH

"All set, then?" John chirped brightly, coming up behind him. Sherlock looked at him as if he was seeing him for the very first time.

"Yes… of course." He held the door open and smiled as John passed through. _I am a genius of the highest caliber. If ordinary, boring people manage to say it, so can I._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time they were back at Baker Street, being fussed over by Mrs. Hudson, they had gotten messages from both Donny and Lestrade. Lestrade informed them that all the people in quarantine were being released with a clean bill of health, and Donny begged their forgiveness. Not only for getting them involved in the whole mess, but also because his payment would be late. It seemed that his employers had not taken kindly to his loss of the samples, and he had been sacked. Sherlock assured him that this had been the least boring case he'd had in some time, and payment would not be necessary. He even wished him luck at John's insistence.

Once Mrs. Hudson was satisfied that both of "her boys" were free of deadly diseases, she released them to their flat with a large plate of her homemade biscuits. Sherlock had promised to eat some, since "John has been through enough and does not need you giving him a more to worry over by not eating."

The two of them settled down for the evening, filling their bellies with leftover takeaway, Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and a hot cup of tea each. John lifted the remote to flip on the telly, but stopped and lowered it again, giving Sherlock a puzzled look.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" The noncommittal reply came his usual chair, barely glancing at John who was settled on the sofa.

"Was there something else you wanted to say? At the hospital, I mean."

A long silence followed, as Sherlock searched John's face. He wasn't prepared for this yet, he didn't know what the right words were…

"I mean, we left kind of abruptly. I didn't mean to interrupt you or anything, I just—"

"You were recently faced with your own mortality. Again." He added, sheepishly. "Seems to be a pattern of working with me, I'm afraid. Anyway, you were within your rights to want to get out as soon as possible. "

Now it was John's turn to search Sherlock's face. After a moment, he said "You still haven't answered my question."

_Damn…_ It seemed that he wouldn't be sidetracked. And Sherlock had learned that John was a very patient man. He would wait all night to hear what Sherlock had to say, if it came to that. The detective took a deep breath, and shut his eyes. Maybe if he didn't have to see John's face, it would be easier.

"I thought I was going to lose you. Again. You keep being put in danger because of me, and this time it wasn't something I could fix by shooting someone, or deducing someone. You were just going to wither away and die before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it."

He went silent for a moment. He could hear John just waiting, being infuriatingly patient. _This is stupid…_ Sherlock thought to himself. He'd never been anything less than straightforward with what he wanted before, and he saw no reason it should be different now. That thought strengthened his resolve. He snapped his eyes open, got up, walked over to where John sat, and planted himself on the coffee table before him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and sat up straight, looking John in the eye with a formality better suited to his elder brother. "That is unacceptable. I have grown accustomed to your presence here, and I cannot have you leaving me now. "

"Sherlock, I'm fine. And I'm not going anywhere." John smiled reassuringly

"Not now. But someday, you will. You will find some appallingly boring woman, and move to some desperately dull house, and have an unbearably common life and I simply can't let that happen. Therefore, I have decided that you are to stop this dating rubbish. You can be mine, instead."

That must have come out wrong, because John rankled. "Now hang on a minute, Sherlock I can't just belong to you because you like having me around. Like it or not, I have a right to be happy with someone who love me, and –"John was cut off when Sherlock rolled his eyes, and crushed his mouth against him.

Sherlock straightened up from the frankly, awkward kiss, and looked down his nose at his flatmate's increasingly flushed face. "**_I_** love you, idiot. Obviously."

John was silent for a minute, processing this as best he could. He looked at Sherlock incredulously for awhile longer, then threw his head back and laughed until there were tears in his eyes.

"What is so funny about that?!" Sherlock huffed. This conversation was _not_ going the way he expected at all.

John wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, but kept grinning. "Sherlock, you really are hopeless." He shifted forward a little, so their knees were touching. John placed his hands on the detective's shoulders, and tipped forward to press their foreheads together. "I love you too. But let's try that again, a little less violently."

He moved his hands from Sherlock's shoulders to his jaw, and pressed their lips together gently. With more experience guiding them, the kiss was warm, and soft, and left Sherlock feeling like he was floating. What might have been a moment, or an eternity later, John pulled back, just a fraction and looked up at him.

"Why didn't I see what all the fuss was about before this?" Sherlock asked a little breathlessly.

"Because you're an idiot." John smiled against his mouth, and captured it again.

Sherlock had a feeling he wouldn't be bored again for a very long time.

xX FIN Xx


End file.
